


The Certainty Of John Watson

by A_Candle_For_Sherlock



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: After Reichenbach, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, M/M, Pre-Slash, They're getting there, Watson cries, just feels, no real plot, slice-of-life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 15:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9614294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Candle_For_Sherlock/pseuds/A_Candle_For_Sherlock
Summary: I needed a pretext to avoid his eye. This was not the first gift I had given him; there had been tickets to the opera, and offerings of tobacco and spirits, and some very good suppers at various hotels in the old days when we had shared everything good, as well as all dangers. But this was the first thing I had purchased for him simply because the sight of it brought him to mind and pleased me.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the events contained in Doyle's The Final Problem and The Empty House, and prompted by a photograph of a lovely 19th-century revolver, as described.
> 
> Russian translation here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11761152

I’d been at work two hours in the hush of the morning before Watson came out of his room. He was dressed, his hair smoothed back and skin rosy with washing-up, his eyes sleep-softened, so that I knew he had not been up long. There was a general radiance about him which had remained since we had been restored to one another; I from my semi-voluntary exile into the wide world, and he from his solitary existence in the rooms where his wife had died; where he had mourned us both alone, the true and the falsely departed. Some months ago I’d received word of her passing, and found that I could not wait any longer for the last of the Professor’s men to be implicated by my brother’s and Mr. Lestrade’s combined attention. Colonel Moran had carelessly committed domestic murder in London while lying in wait for me, and could no doubt be charged with it, with a very little effort. There was no real reason for me to remain away. I had set sail from France within twenty-four hours, and gone directly to resurrect myself without warning in Watson’s study. The result had been entirely unexpected: he had fainted in front of me, and even on regaining his senses had required some few moments to believe fully in the veracity of my continued and hearty existence. I had not realized he would feel it quite so much.

I had seen, then, that he was diminished and weary, and his hair had silvered; and the bloodless cast of his complexion worried me considerably; it was reminiscent of the state of confused and patient grief he’d been in when I had met him years before. But once again my presence seemed to rouse something in him; he had grasped my arm, and asked after my tale, and listened to it all with a fierce sort of joy; had blazed up further at mention of the work I had in view that night, and offered himself eagerly to the task. When we reached home–-that is, our old quarters in Baker Street–-he had been alight with a relief and satisfaction equal to my own. It had not taken me long to persuade him round to moving in again.

Now, as he entered the room, there was a gleam in his glance, and a twist of his expressive mouth; no doubt amusement at the sight of me, seated sideways at the table with a German periodical in my hand and my breakfast untouched before me. I smiled at his, "Good morning, Holmes," but only glanced at him; I had good reason for wanting something to study just then, some pretext to avoid his eye. By his plate I had placed a gift.

This was not the first gift I had given him; there had been tickets to the opera, and offerings of tobacco and spirits, and some very good suppers at various hotels in the old days when we had shared everything good, as well as all dangers. But this was the first thing I had purchased for him simply because the sight of it brought him to mind and pleased me. It was a revolver; an elegant, deadly thing of ivory and gold; entirely appropriate for his hand. I had been stationed at the laboratory in Montpellier, conducting experiments to pass the time while I awaited word from Mycroft; and I’d taken a day-trip to Paris for supplies, where I'd seen the weapon in the window of a shop, nestled in black velvet. It had stopped me on the street. I had by then given up the attempt not to think of him, weakened by the awareness that he was just across the Channel; and I'd looked at the gun with an immoderate wistfulness. The engraving on the barrel was of enormous delicacy, twining vines and blossoms which brought to mind his love of all things that grow; the burnish of the gold very nearly the match of the shine of his hair in firelight; and the shape of it quite slender enough for him to carry unseen beneath his coat until he had need of it. I’d purchased it without haggling, wrapped it in my handkerchief, and kept it under my pillow ever since. Since Watson had moved back in, I had been thinking more or less continually of the fact that I ought to find a way to give it to him.

As he approached, I kept my face bent to the article I’d been attempting to read, but watched him through my lashes; saw surprise suffuse his face at sight of the revolver. He drew nearer; reached out and took it carefully in hand, and turned it over.

“Holmes,” he said, “what is this?”

“It’s for you.”

“Where did it come from?”

I endeavored to keep my tone even, in spite of my nerves. “From Paris. I bought it for you when I was–-while I was gone.” I had nearly said, “When I was dead.”

A sudden stillness; then he laid the little weapon down and turned his back; busied himself at the sideboard pouring out a cup of coffee. A flush was spreading over his neck, and his hands trembled, telltale signs of his rare anger. I had gravely misjudged--had bungled things terribly; ought not to have mentioned the time of my absence from him-–ought not to have purchased the gift at all. I should have stayed within the bounds of my old behaviour. Familiarity was what he wanted. Mortification sharpened my tone without my volition when I said, “I have offended you.”

"No." He turned. "No, you have not." His eyes were full of tears. It took my breath, and I sat stunned; long enough for him to say roughly, “You thought of me?”

“Every day.” I was transfixed. Had he not realized?

A tear escaped. He brushed it away. “So did I think of you.” His voice was steady, but sorrow drowned his gaze. “So why–-” He stopped for breath. I drew it with him; breathed out with him, terrified. “Why leave me, Holmes?”

I couldn’t speak.

“To be allowed to stay with you under the Professor’s threat, only to be sent back at the crucial hour–-” Two more tears rolled down his cheeks and fell to the carpet. “Why not tell me you were going, at the very least?”

I had no idea how to bear his gaze. “I didn’t expect to survive, Watson, and I would not permit you to meet your end with me–-you had a wife, a practice–-you were needed elsewhere. I thought it best to leave you in peace.”

“I found no peace.” His brows were drawn together fiercely, but his mouth trembled.

“Nor did I,” I admitted; whispered it, remembering the nights alone in the quiet of the Himalayan peaks, in the heated heart of Khartoum, in the starry spring of Montpellier, in every place where he was not. I’d thought him better off without me. I had not understood anything at all; I saw that now. “I should not have left you in the dark.”

He took a step across to the table, where my gift still lay beside his plate, watching me closely. “Would you do it again?”

“No.” My voice emerged too loud and harsh; he startled at my tone. I cleared my throat and tried for a calmer one. “No, I would not. If I have any say in the matter, I will never leave again.”

His eyes dropped. He smiled; reached out for my gift, and lifted it, and ran his thumb reverently down the barrel; slid the gleaming little revolver into the pocket of his waistcoat. It fit perfectly. Then he stepped around the table and stood in front of me, looking down at me with a strange warmth. I rose, uncertain, and he caught my hands.

“Together, then. From now on, the two of us together, against all comers.”

“Together,” I said, all my attention captured in the gentle press of his hands on mine; and if my answer was unsteady, I defy anyone to say that it was not sure. I have never been more certain of anything in the world than I am of my Watson.


End file.
